Tumbled Graves (7 page)

“I don't question his connection with her. Do you know who Violet's biological father is?” Kala felt Gundersund's stillness. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him straighten up on the coach. She bet the wheels were turning inside his head. He'd be going over the facts, figuring out what they'd neglected to ask.

Leanne raised her eyes to the ceiling. “She never said.”

Kala waited. She asked softly, “And did she tell you that she wasn't the mother?”

Randy's face twisted into a sneer. “Bullshit, officer. Of course Adele was Violet's mother.”

Kala continued speaking directly to Leanne. “From the forensic evidence, we have reason to believe that your sister never gave birth. Did you see her pregnant or did she arrive with the baby?”

Leanne's eyes fluttered and a sob escaped her open mouth. A bright red flushed her face underneath beads of sweat. Her words came out like a cry. “I don't know what you're talking about.” Her whole body began to shake.

Randy pushed himself to his feet. “If what you say is true, we have no knowledge of it. In fact, we challenge your insane accusation. Adele always said that Violet was her daughter. We'd better end the interview now so my wife has time to grieve. She's not holding up so well. I'm going to have to ask you both to leave.”

“I just have a few more …”

Gundersund cut her off as Randy moved between them and his wife. He spoke quickly. “We'll leave it here until you've had some time.” He stood. “Thanks again for your hospitality and we're very sorry for your loss. We'll see ourselves out.” He made a sharp motion with his right hand for Kala to lead the way out of the room.

She wanted to press on while she had the element of surprise, but she knew that Gundersund was right. They'd get nothing more out of the Scotts for the time being. She stood up and passed in front of him on her way to the door. She stole one last look at Leanne, trying to understand her extreme reaction.

Outside, Gundersund turned and looked down at her.

“Well, that was awkward,” she said, trying to head him off. He ignored her levity.

“Did your bombshell come from the autopsy?”

“Yes.”

“You might have thought to mention it when we met at the Merchant. Rouleau needed to know.”

“Fiona called me last night. I left Rouleau a voice mail with the information.”

“And yet you kept it to yourself all the way from Kingston to Gananoque. You should have told me what you were going to ask. At the very least we could have worked up a better way of approaching her.”

“It wouldn't have mattered. Either they don't know that Violet was somebody else's child or they're covering up.”

He rubbed the scar on his cheek, something Kala knew he did when he was agitated. “Maybe the biological parents of the kid aren't relevant.”

“Maybe, but I think it's an avenue worth pursuing. Why did nobody mention that Violet was adopted? We should check out Adele's life in Montreal.”

“When people raise an adopted child from birth, they forget somebody else actually gave birth.”

“Yeah, except if the kid is kidnapped or murdered. Then they'd want to consider everyone who might have had a motive.”

“The Scotts have had a lot to take in and Violet's parentage is the last thing on their minds. Like most people, they wouldn't be linking Violet's biological parents to her disappearance. The most obvious path would be to focus on Ivo Delaney, but I have a feeling you aren't going to go for the obvious.” He started walking toward his car. A sigh made his shoulders rise and fall. He spoke with his back to her. “Let's head back to the station and get started on some research. It'll be something to do while we wait to interview Ivo.”

“Okay.” She followed slowly behind. Gundersund's logic had holes but he was being obtuse and argumentative for some reason. If Violet was adopted, why wouldn't Adele have told her sister? If Adele had told her, why the denial? And why hadn't Ivo mentioned that Violet wasn't his child? She knew she was onto something even if Ivo turned out to be the one who killed his own wife and kid.

The return trip to Kingston was as quiet as the ride down. Kala tucked herself against the passenger door and kept her face turned to look out the side window. In her blurry reflection, she saw a blond little girl's haunted eyes staring back at her. As the kilometres stretched by, the child's eyes became her own, aged ten, brimming with guilt and loneliness. She let the miles slip past as memories crowded back like unwelcome guests, rarely allowed to see the light of day. This case was getting to her. The violence was opening wounds long put away.

She knew with certainty that Gundersund was wrong about one thing. Nobody forgot that a child wasn't their own, no matter how much they let them into their family. She'd lived in enough foster homes to know the truth of that. Nobody ever forgot where you came from.

Ever.

R
ouleau
sat next to Malcolm T. Heath while he reassured the public that the killer was not going to strike again and that all was under control. Even Rouleau found himself soothed by the Colombo-like calm of his boss, this man-cherub in police uniform. You'd never know that Heath was feeding smoke and mirrors to the media crowded into the meeting room at city hall. He was subtly leading the reporters to conclude that Adele and Violet's deaths were the result of a domestic incident. The absence of evidence didn't seem to concern him.

Marci Stokes sat squarely in the centre of the first row, madly scribbling away on a pad of paper with her microphone recording anything she might miss. She wore wrinkled khaki pants and a tight red t-shirt that showed off freckled arms. Her auburn hair was tied back but several strands had escaped, making her appear dishevelled. Her article in the
Whig
that morning had made the first page and drawn reporters from Toronto and Ottawa like bees to honey. Canadian Press,
Globe and Mail
,
Ottawa Citizen
, and CBC were all present and accounted for. Two local television news crews were filming the media briefing, which would be broadcast online and across Eastern Ontario.

Heath managed to keep his serious, troubled expression plastered on his face even though Rouleau could sense his enjoyment at being centre stage, the limelight being something he courted. The proof was in his grey curls, freshly cut and styled an hour before, and the generous application of aftershave, a citrusy bouquet with a woodsy finish.

The CBC reporter, whom Rouleau recognized from the six o'clock news, shouted out, “How long before you call off the search for Violet Delaney?”

Heath pulled his reading glasses to the edge of his nose and focused the stare from his striking blue eyes over them directly into one of the television cameras. “We've got a crew from Ottawa helping with the search. We're giving it one more day. I'd like to commend my team for leading this tragic mission.”

As if we're recovery troops in Afghanistan.
Rouleau had argued against the TV crews being allowed to film on the Delaney property, but Heath had overridden him. “They need to show the public our people in action,” he'd said. “People have a right to know what the team is up against.”

The problem for Rouleau was that the footage was putting the spotlight on Ivo Delaney and narrowing the focus to him alone. His property had become a destination for gawkers with their own video cameras. Bennett had forwarded three homemade videos that he'd found on YouTube, all saying that Ivo Delaney had killed his family.

Marci raised her head. She waved a hand until Heath nodded in her direction. She got to her feet. “Marci Stokes.
Whig-Standard
. I understand that Ivo Delaney is under medical care. Can you confirm whether or not this is true?”

Heath looked at Rouleau.

“We're not at liberty to discuss this information,” Rouleau said with more authority than he felt.

Marci kept standing. “Is Ivo Delaney your only suspect?”

“We're still working on gathering evidence. We've reached no conclusions at this point.”

“But you've outlined the murders as a domestic situation.”

Rouleau silently cursed Heath who was sitting like a doorstop next to him now that the reporter wanted some substance. “We haven't reached any conclusions at this point.”

“Meaning you haven't got any real evidence?”

“We're not at liberty to discuss the evidence at this point in the investigation.”

Marci took a long, slow look around at the other reporters then back at Rouleau. “You really haven't given us anything that we didn't already have last night.” She made a disgusted face and sat back down. The two television cameras were fixed squarely on her.

Heath rallied. “We are giving regular updates as we do for all major cases. That'll be all for now. We'll call another press conference to update you when we've news to impart.”

The irony of what he just said appeared to be lost on him. Rouleau stood and a technician came over to remove the microphone from his shirt. Heath stood next to him while his microphone was also removed.

“That went well,” Heath said under his breath, “until the Stokes woman. Who's feeding her information?”

“No idea.”

“Well find the leak and plug it before she becomes a problem. I'll meet you back at the station.” Heath turned and strode past the reporters toward the door.

Rouleau checked his messages and waited for the room to clear. Gundersund and Stonechild were on their way back to the station. He texted that he'd meet them in the office after lunch. Woodhouse had also checked in. Still no sign of Violet Delaney's body in the creek — more like river with the non-stop rain and spring runoff.

He looked around. The reporters had gone, including Marci Stokes. He had a bit of time before he had to meet up with Gundersund and Stonechild. He'd take the small window to grab lunch downtown. He exited city hall and headed southwest on Ontario Street until he reached Market. He took a right and walked a block to King Street East then turned left. From there it was a short walk to the Pilot House on the corner where he and his father had spent many a pleasant lunch hour. A cool wind was blowing off the lake. Fat drops of rain were sprinkling down by the time he reached the bright blue awning that stretched above the door of the Pilot House.

He took a table near the window and the waitress came right over to take his order. He asked for a pint of Guinness and the cod and chips. It was only then that he cast an eye around the small pub and spotted Marci Stokes sitting at a table against the far wall. She was huddled over her cellphone, clicking away with both thumbs. Most of her hair had escaped its elastic band and hung tangled around her face. He looked away and then back. She was scowling and looked ready to take a go at somebody. Before he could look away a second time, she raised her head and looked directly at him. She waited until the waitress had delivered his beer before she picked up her own drink and walked over. She slid into the empty chair without being asked.

“Heath likes the camera,” she said. “You not so much.” She was older than she'd looked the night before in the darkness on the highway. Mid-forties he wagered. Fine lines rimmed her eyes and mouth.

He took a drink. “Goes with the job. You appear ready to kill somebody.”

“Just responding to an email from my New York ex-editor at the
Post
. He's a pompous ass.”

“I gather he's not offering you your job back.”

“On the contrary. Why he thinks I'd take it after all the shit boggles my mind.”

The waitress brought over her meal, a club sandwich and fries. Marci picked up a piece and glanced at him. “Hope you don't mind if I dig in. Press conferences make me ravenous.”

“By all means.”

He watched her eat with an appetite that reminded him of Kala Stonechild. Both devoted their entire concentration to their food and seemed to think of nothing but for the time it took to devour everything on the plate. His fish and chips arrived as she was popping the last fry into her mouth. He felt like he'd just eaten a full meal watching her even though his stomach was rumbling. He ate a forkful of battered cod.

Marci pushed her plate away with a contented sigh. “This feels like the time for a cigarette, but happily I gave them up ten years ago. Still, there are moments like right now when I'd give an arm to have one.

“So you really have no evidence about what happened to Adele and Violet Delaney?”

“Nothing more than we updated you with this morning.”

“Sorry about my grandstanding. I was trying to make a point to my colleagues.”

“Letting them know that you'd beaten them to the story yesterday.”

She shrugged. “If you like. You've probably heard by now that I have something to prove.”

The rain was picking up speed and rivulets slid down the window. Wind rattled the glass. Rouleau thought of the officers searching the woods and river for Violet Delaney. He looked from the glass to Marci. “Why are you in Kingston anyway?”

“I got a major story wrong. My contacts made up the story to get paid and I didn't see through it. My bosses thought time in the wilderness would make me contrite.”

“The
Post
editor?”

“Him among others. It doesn't help that he and I were a couple for six years. Say, are you planning on eating that coleslaw?”

He glanced down. “Would you like it?”

She scooped up the white paper container from his plate. “If you're sure.” Her fork lifted the shredded cabbage and carrots to her open mouth before he could look away. She had straight white teeth with a sizable gap between the top front two.

She swallowed. “You wouldn't confirm that Ivo Delaney is under medical care but I hear he has mental issues.”

“How do you know that?”

“One of the tellers at the bank where he works. She has coffee with him now and then because they were in high school together. He confided in her.”

“Did she say what the issues were?” If so, Marci was one step ahead of his team.

“Depression brought on by low self-esteem. He tried to kill himself in his late teens. He was hospitalized and put on meds.”

“You didn't share that with your colleagues this morning.”

“No. I thought I'd run it by you first. I'm not entirely without scruples, Detective.”

“Good to know.” He knew this information would have the public screaming for Ivo Delaney's blood. Heath would cut off the investigation or seriously scale back the money he was willing to put into it. “Can you keep this to yourself for the time being?”

She tilted her head and studied him with intelligent grey eyes. “There'd have to be something in it for me. A trading of information might benefit both of us. I can wait to file this story if you promise to give me a scoop ahead of the other media.”

“Who else on the force is feeding you information?”

“No fair, Detective. I won't divulge my source but I can say that they don't have the full picture.”

He thought over her offer. He didn't want Ivo Delaney skewered before the investigation uncovered all the facts. “All right. I'll let you know when we've got something concrete.”

“And I'll do likewise.”

He ate the last of his fish and drank a last swallow of beer. He had no desire to head outside into the rain but signalled for his bill. “I guess I'll be seeing you around.”

“I guess you will.”

She'd pulled out her phone and was back furiously typing with her thumbs as he stood at the bar waiting for the waitress to make change. Probably letting her ex-partner-slash-editor know exactly what she thought of him. Rouleau thanked the waitress and pulled his coat collar up as far as it would go. Then he stepped outside into the slanting rain and wind.